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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031565">Hand in Glove</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi'>okapi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Crossdressing Sherlock Holmes, Dirty Talk, Gloves, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Rimming, Watson in the Dark A Lot (in More Ways than One!)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:27:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031565</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On the 29th of February, spinsters may propose marriage to bachelors. If refused, the bachelors are obliged to provide the spinsters with gloves, to hide their ringless fingers!</p><p>In keeping with custom, one night in late February, Miss Violet Mohels has a question for Doctor John Watson.</p><p>Holmes/Watson. Crossdressing Holmes. PWP. For the DW story_works comm Leap Day flash challenge.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Story Works</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Proposal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Miss Violet Mohels is my Holmes crossdressing sex-working persona, introduced in this 500-word ficlet, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644895/chapters/52933555">Perfect Vision</a>.</p><p><b>Warning:</b> Mention of animal fur and animal skins worn as clothing (coat and gloves). </p><p>This is a PWP. There will be liberties taken in clothing and various aspects of sex. If you are the kind of reader who doesn't like to suspend their disbelief much (i.e., if you like your sex very realistic), this isn't the fic for you.</p><p>For the DW story_works comm Leap Day flash challenge and for the DW Inspiring Tables challenge.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>One night in late February, Miss Violet Mohels has a proposal for Doctor John Watson. </p><p>The chapter rating is Gen. For DW Inspiring Tables prompt 07. Present.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fog on that late February night was of humbling opacity.</p><p>My journey to Baker Street, walking a route I’d taken hundreds of times, was taking twice as long as usual and, shame of all shames, I found myself genuinely lost and wholly alone.</p><p>Or so I thought, with that thick blanket about me, until I heard my name.</p><p>“Doctor Watson?”</p><p>I stopped.</p><p>The spectral outline resolved itself into a corporal figure.</p><p>She was a tall, almost statuesque, form enveloped in sleek, dark furs. A nest of coquettish brunette curls peeked out of a very comely hat. Two discreet pearls adorned shapely earlobes; a matching strand encircled a swan-like neck. Even in the dim streetlight, I could see the face was a work of art in softened angles and plumped lines and elegant and expert use of shade and tone.</p><p>“Miss Violet Mohels,” I said.</p><p>She hid her blush in the collar of her fur. Even muffled, her voice was warm and husky.</p><p>“I’m flattered you recognise me, Doctor.”</p><p>“I heard you speak in court once. You argued that your chosen profession didn’t lessen your powers of observation or your value as a witness. The entire court owed you a debt of gratitude for the instruction. You made us all sit up and take notice and think.”</p><p>“I’ve been told I have that effect.”</p><p>She straightened, pulling the lower half of her face out of the fur cowl. Then she artistically dipped her chin while raising her gaze, looking at me through long, curled, dark eyelashes. It was a calculated and rehearsed pose, but none the less charming for that.</p><p>“I have a proposal for you, Doctor.”</p><p>“Indeed?”</p><p>“It is the 29<sup>th</sup> of February, is it not? I believe custom allows, on this day, such proposals from a spinster to a bachelor.”</p><p>“Yes, it does.”</p><p>Her eyelashes fluttered like dark moths.</p><p>“Will you do me the honour of marrying me, Doctor Watson?”</p><p>Uncertain, I gripped my Gladstone tighter, smiled, and said gently,</p><p>“Now it is my turn to be flattered, Miss Mohels, but I must regretfully and respectfully decline your proposal.”</p><p>She hummed and shifted her weight. “In that case, I believe custom says you are under obligation to make me a gift of a dozen gloves,” she continued to bat her eyelashes, adding sweetly, “to cover my ringless fingers.”</p><p>More certain of my ground, I replied, teasingly, “Twelve gloves? Six pairs?”</p><p>Her beautifully painted lips twitched. “Yes, Doctor.”</p><p>“That I will be more than happy to do.”</p><p>She wasn’t expecting that!</p><p>The upper rows of eyelashes lifted to reveal grey eyes gone round with mild surprise.</p><p>I shot her a look.</p><p>
  <em>It isn’t a game if two can’t play, my dear.</em>
</p><p>She recovered quickly. “I shall tell you where they may be sent,” she mentioned an address, “but please do me the courtesy of sending one pair at a time.”</p><p>“Very well, but how will I know when to send to the next pair?”</p><p>“Oh, you’ll know, Doctor.” She blushed again. “Now I must take my leave.”</p><p>I didn’t want her to go. “The fog is ghastly. May I escort you to your destination?”</p><p>“I am afraid that wouldn’t be fitting given where I’m headed or who will be greeting me.”</p><p>Dropping the pretense, I stepped towards her until I touched the sleeve of her coat. I asked, with genuine urgency and concern,</p><p>“Are you in danger, my dear?”</p><p>She smiled and sighed again. “Oh, Doctor Watson, I assure you that I can take care of myself, and I am only in danger of two things: being tardy to my next appointment and making you another, very different, kind of proposal.” The deep timbre of her voice made my body stir.</p><p>“Miss Mohels.”</p><p>She leaned closely and whispered in my ear. “I await your favours, Doctor, as eagerly as you await mine. All in good time,” then her voice became quick, sober, and practical, “By the way, Baker Street is, in fact, behind you. Be careful. The stones are slick. Good night.”</p>
<hr/><p>And with that, she gave me a peck on the cheek and disappeared into the fog.</p><p>Two days later, while studying the evening papers, Holmes suggested dinner at Simpson’s.</p><p>“I’m afraid dining out is beyond me for the near future,” I replied ruefully. “I must practice economy.”</p><p>“Oh, dear. Not the siren song of the gambling halls, I hope?”</p><p>“No. Presents. Tokens of affection.”</p><p>Holmes chuckled and turned a page. “Not Lady Luck, but a lucky lady.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dove-coloured, fur-lined gloves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On a cold night in March, Miss Mohels thanks Doctor Watson for his gift of dove-coloured, fur-lined gloves.</p><p>From here until the end, the chapters will be explicit. The chapter tags are: public sex, hand job.</p><p>For Inspiring Tables prompt 22. Rose.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Though very early March, the night was a bitter, brittle cold, a cold to rival any we’d suffered during the winter proper. Irrationally wishing for a third muffler to wrap round the only exposed part of my head and so absorbed by the prospect of a warm fire and a hot toddy, I didn’t hear my name the first time it was called.</p><p>“Doctor Watson?”</p><p>I stopped. The voice held the faint peevishness of repetition. Following the sound, I left the main thoroughfare for the shadowy, abandoned recesses of a narrow alley.</p><p>The darkness became almost impenetrable. I moved slowly, unable to see anything, not even a puff of warm breath. Even in my blindness, however, I knew who was there, and I approached her like a moth to flame.</p><p>“Miss Mohels.”</p><p>“I can’t thank you enough for the fur-lined gloves, Doctor. They are beautiful.”</p><p>“And warm. Tonight, of all nights, I hope you are wearing them.”</p><p>“I am. I have another proposal, Doctor, one I sincerely hope you will accept. I propose to remove one of the gloves and give you a proper demonstration of just how warm your beautiful, dove-coloured gift has made my hands. I know that on a night such as this you are longing for your cosy fire and your armchair and your pipe, and I know it is a liberty, but I ask that you permit me this brief kindness. You are well within your rights to refuse, naturally.”</p><p>It is difficult to describe her seductive tone, but it easy to describe its effect: my prick grew hard and my mind fell blank. I answered her eloquence with a Neolithic grunt.</p><p>Her hands on my shoulders guided me a few steps, turning us, then she pressed her body along one side of me. Her persevering hand found, beneath layers of wool, a half-hard prick yearning for her touch.</p><p>Her warm touch.</p><p>I leaned towards her and exhaled a long sigh as she massaged the base of my prick. Then her fingers went along, lightly toying, softly tracing, expertly mapping the length and girth of my shaft until they reached the head. The fingers and thumb paid very special attention to the head, rubbing around and around and teasing the slit.</p><p>It was wonderful. I gave myself over to her at once.</p><p>Her coat and my own, opened but overlapping each other, formed barriers, insulating my exposed sex from the cold, but mostly, it was her hand, her warm hand offering to share its warmth with me.</p><p>I breathed in her scent, an attar of roses, nuzzling a bit at her neck, but otherwise not touching her at all.</p><p>I closed my eyes and sighed and relaxed into her.</p><p>She hummed approvingly.</p><p>Her touch vanished suddenly, and I made a shameful noise of protest.</p><p>She tut-tutted.</p><p>Her touch returned, and when it returned, it was warm <em>and wet</em>.</p><p>“How?” I gasped. I hadn’t heard a sound.</p><p>She laughed a rich, throaty chuckle. “Every profession has its secrets, Doctor. Mine, being the oldest, has more than most.”</p><p>She began to stroke my prick.</p><p>Base to head. Head to base.</p><p>Coating. Sliding. Squeezing. Tugging.</p><p>“You are handsome, Doctor. Mouth-wateringly handsome. My hand seems to be made to do this,” she gave a strong downward stroke until her fist pressed into my lower body, “and this,” she squeezed the shaft as she drew it back up. “Frigging you is such a pleasure. Is my hand warm enough?”</p><p>“So warm,” I gasped. “And wet and utterly wonderful.”</p><p>“So warm,” she echoed. “The world is very cold tonight but not us.”</p><p>She sped up her stroking.</p><p>I gripped her shoulder and leaned in even closer, taking lungfuls of her perfume deeper into me. I thought of a rose garden. I thought of paradise.</p><p>She curled her free arm towards my face. Fur tips tickled my nose. A gloved hand brushed my lips through the wool of my mufflers.</p><p>The grip of her bare hand became tighter, her rhythm, faster, her determination, singular. My body, my sex, was hers to command. I knew it. She knew it. I was in her hand.</p><p>My lust pooled.</p><p>I yanked the mufflers down, freeing my lips, and closed my mouth round the side of her curled index finger; the thickness of the glove absorbed my plaintive noises as my hips bucked into her warm touch.</p><p>Her warm, wet, perfect touch.</p><p>As I floated on a rose-scented cloud, she cleaned me up and set us both to rights. She pulled away slightly, and the cold that had been kept at bay slid between us, waking me from my blissful stupor.</p><p>“Did I soil you?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Allow me to…”</p><p>“Not tonight, Doctor.” My gloved hands were in hers. She squeezed them. “I must go.”</p><p>“No!” I protested childishly. “At least let me take you home. Or wherever. I’ll take you wherever you have to go.” I winced at my tone.</p><p>“No, Doctor, I have work to do, but I thank you for the gloves and for,” she paused, “tonight.”</p><p>She drew away from me, but instead of walking towards the street, she shrank farther into the alley. Then there was the sharp metal-and-wood noise of a heavy, recalcitrant door being wrenched open.</p><p>“Miss Mohels!” I whispered urgently.</p><p>A faint interior light shone, painting her dim silhouette. “Good night, Doctor.”</p><p>Then, I was in the dark once more.</p>
<hr/><p>The thud of the front door woke me in my armchair. The fire had died down. Heavy boots clomped on the steps.</p><p>“Holmes?” I slurred, my voice thick with sleep.</p><p>“You should not have waited up, Watson.”</p><p>I blinked at the clock but could read nothing.</p><p>“It’s half four,” supplied Holmes curtly.</p><p>“Are you all right?” Even from where I sat, I could smell the liquor.</p><p>“Go to bed,” he intoned. Then he clomped into his bedroom and closed the door. I heard the painful squeak of his weight on the bed and wondered what it all meant.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chocolate-brown deerskin gloves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On a rainy March night, Miss Violet Mohels thanks Doctor John Watson for his gift of chocolate-brown deerskin gloves.</p><p>The chapter tags are: anal plugs, anal sex, and hand job.</p><p>For the Inspiring Tables prompt 36. Rain.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Winter finally released its icy grip on the metropolis. As the mercury in thermometers rose, the barometer needle shifted, bringing spring rains.</p><p>Long after the last vestiges of snow had been washed away, it was still raining. I was trudging back to Baker Street one night when the wind picked up and the slight drizzle of the evening decided to become a torrential storm.</p><p>Using my umbrella like a shield and contemplating the building of an ark, I fought the elements. I seemed to be the only person in the entire city who had not wisely opted for a commute in cab or carriage or omnibus.</p><p>At one point, I jumped into an alley, narrowly avoiding being drenched by high, arching spray from a convoy of wheels.</p><p>Then I heard my name.</p><p>I won’t lie. I flew to her.</p><p>As I approached, I could see that she was smartly turned out from head to toe in shades of chocolate brown. Only her umbrella was black.</p><p>“Thank you for the gloves, Doctor Watson. The deerskin is beautiful as well as practical on these wet days.”</p><p>“You’re very welcome.”</p><p>Our two umbrellas formed a small canopy. Rain poured around us.</p><p>She took me by the hand and led me to a door which, by the sound it made, seemed to be the same one by which she left me at the end of our previous encounter.</p><p>I turned and closed my umbrella. She handed me her umbrella and yanked me inside. I dropped both umbrellas on the ground outside just before the door slammed shut behind us.</p><p>I was in darkness.</p><p>“I have a proposal, Doctor.” The strain in her voice made my prick hard.</p><p>“I’m yours, Miss Mohels,” I replied, just as breathless.</p><p>I heard a good deal of material rustling and felt her hands moving hurried about the front of my trousers.</p><p>I bit my own gloves, each by the index finger, ripped them off, and shoved the ball into my coat pocket.</p><p>Her hands, soft, gloved hands, brought my bare hands to her skin, her bare skin.</p><p>Unable to see, I touched.</p><p>Buttocks.</p><p>One of my fingers slipped down the cleft until it felt something hard. I felt around and realised it was rubber and a metal ring.</p><p>When the penny dropped, I groaned.</p><p>“Patience isn’t one of my virtues, Doctor.”</p><p>“I have enough for both us, my dear.” I gently pulled at the ring and wrapped the plug in a handkerchief and stuck it in my other coat pocket. Then I spat generously on one palm and slicked my prick as best I could while the fingers of the other hand found, and gently teased, a puckered hole. I heard a noisy exhale as I nudged the head of my prick between the buttocks. “But my acceptance of your proposal is dependent on two conditions, my dear.”</p><p>“What?” she inquired, very impatiently.</p><p>“I must be allowed a privilege.” Holding my prick in place with one hand, I spat again on the palm of the other then, keeping it cupped, snaked it beneath voluminous fabric and around her bent waist. I curled my wet hand around a half-hard prick and heard a quiet gasp. “<em>This</em> privilege.”</p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>“And,” I continued, advancing my own prick into her, “you must call me ‘John.’”</p><p>There was a loud hollow groan, for once, not my own.</p><p>“John. Please, John.”</p><p>“Please what?”</p><p>“Bugger me, frig me, make me repay your generosity with my flesh.”</p><p>I pushed into her slowly, then not so slowly. My hand stroked up and down the prick, coaxing it to full mast.</p><p>“Where are your hands, my dear?” I asked, apropos of nothing.</p><p>“Against the wall,” she replied, and I heard the smile in her voice. “I prepared myself for you,” she confessed. “Stretched myself, filled myself with slick—”</p><p>“Yes, you have,” I observed as I bottomed out and felt a very generous excess slick ooze. “But all for me? I don’t pretend to think I’m the only one privy to your,” I licked my lips, “charms.”</p><p>I pumped once or twice, then released my grip on the prick in my hand. I brought that hand back to catch the drippings round my base. Then I leaned forward and gripped the prick anew.</p><p>It took several thrusts and strokes to work through the clumsiness and find a rhythm, but I knew when I had it because she panted,</p><p>“Yes, John. Oh, yes. I’m yours.”</p><p>“How depraved I am, really, not much more than a beast, but the sound of your voice, the scent of your perfume…”</p><p>“Makes you stir?”</p><p>“Obscenely. Cold, rain, whatever the elements, I would take you and be taken. Anywhere.”</p><p>“It isn’t wise to stimulate my imagination in that way, John.”</p><p>I chuckled, then groaned. “You are warm and tight and wonderful. We fit...”</p><p>“Like hand in glove?”</p><p>“Just so. I’m close, my dear.”</p><p>“So am I. Take what you need, as hard as you need, rend me, make a mess of me, I don’t care as long as it’s you.”</p><p>Her words, spoken in low, desperate tone, set fire to the last of my reserve.</p><p>I pumped and jerked and growled, eventually spending inside her and, a few moments later, feeling dribbles coat the sides of my fingers.</p><p>“Plug me, John. I want to walk about knowing your seed is inside me.”</p><p>“God!”</p><p>“You see? I <em>am</em> a whore.”</p><p>I made a noise of reproof, but I was too far gone to do anything but oblige her.</p><p>I tried to clean myself and straighten our clothes, but even in the dark, especially in the dark, perhaps, she did a better job of it.</p><p>“What is this?” I said when my hands were feeling her skirts and recognising odd arrangement of folds and seams and buttons.</p><p>“Very creative dressmaking.”</p><p>“I’ll say!”</p><p>We laughed.</p><p>I sensed her hand was on the door.</p><p>“Violet?”</p><p>“Yes, John?”</p><p>There were so many things I wanted to say, so many questions I wanted to ask, that I said nothing.</p><p>Her lips brushed my cheek. “I want everything you want, John. I want to say everything, answer everything, but not yet. Be patient. You are the patient one. Be patient for both of us. Meanwhile, we can enjoy ourselves, play the game.”</p><p>
  <em>Play the game. The game’s afoot. </em>
</p><p>She opened the door. I stepped into the alley, bent, and collected our umbrellas. I returned hers, opened mine. The rain still fell in sheets.</p><p>I wanted to kiss her.</p><p>“Good night, Doctor. Thank you.”</p><p>“Good night, Miss Mohels.”</p><p>She closed the door on me.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. White satin opera gloves.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A quick thank you at the opera. </p><p>The chapter rating is Teen, and the chapter tags are nipple play and dirty talk.</p><p>For Inspiring Tables prompt 15. danger.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Holmes suggested a night at the opera. I was about to decline, because of the cost and because I don’t particularly like opera, when he added,</p><p>“My treat, of course. Box seats. I have professional reasons for wanting to go to this one, and I would be less conspicuous in your company.”</p><p>“Danger?” I asked, with just a hint of anticipation.</p><p>He smiled and shook his head. “Information gathering.”</p><p>I relaxed and shrugged. “Very well.” I continued buttering my toast, but then an idea struck.</p><p>After breakfast, I headed straight for the glover’s shop.</p>
<hr/><p>“You are Doctor Watson?” asked the usher quietly as soon as the lights went up for intermission.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“There is a case of sudden illness, Doctor. If you would be so kind.”</p><p>I turned my head, and Holmes gave me a nod. I rose and followed the usher.</p><p>Vague concern gave way to suspicion of danger; the winding route the fellow was leading me seemed perfect for an ambush. What part of the theatre we were traversing, I did not know. If not for the curtains and the sound of the milling crowd, I would’ve suspected we’d left the premises entirely and entered a fantasy realm.</p><p>I was just about to protest when the usher disappeared altogether. I hurried forward a few paces, searching for him, only to find myself being yanked into a kind of forest of thick fabric.</p><p>“My apologies, Doctor,” said a familiar voice as something soft and dark covered my eyes. “You’re in no danger. I simply wanted to thank you for the gloves. White satin, eight buttons. The embodiment of elegance.”</p><p>“For you, nothing less. And I thought we agreed…”</p><p>“Don’t be fussy,<em> John</em>.”</p><p>She was behind me. Her body pressed to mine. Her hand was under my arm, caressing my chest. Like a clever serpent, it found, or rather fashioned, an entry between the sides of my shirt.</p><p>“Bare skin?” she whispered in mock surprise when her satin gloved fingers touched me. “How roguish you are with your undergarments. Or lack thereof.”</p><p>“The weather’s becoming exceptionally clement,” I said, defending my unusual sartorial choice, adding with mild, genuine complaint, “And this place is always grossly overheated. I sweated like an ox the last time!”</p><p>She chuckled. “Shall I make you sweat like an ox this time?”</p><p>“You could, I’m certain. You won’t, I hope.”</p><p>That was a lie. She could’ve proposed to ride me in front of the footlights, and I would’ve agreed.</p><p>“No. This is just a quick thank you for the gloves.” Her satin fingers were toying with one of my nipples. “Eight hard little buttons. Shall I make your buttons hard, John? I wonder if you’re very sensitive here.”</p><p>I was.</p><p>She rubbed in delicious circles around my tender tissue. Her gentle squeezing sent sparks along my nerves.</p><p>I exhaled a held breath. “That’s not the only thing that’s getting hard.”</p><p>“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about that tonight,” she said, and I thought I detected a note of real sorrow in the tone. “I’m nothing but a tease,” she added ruefully. She moved to the other nipple. “Oh, you<em> are</em> very sensitive. How lovely. I’d love to taste them. Drag my tongue like this.” She flicked the pebbled bud.</p><p>“Later, perhaps?” I groaned.</p><p>“Perhaps. I’d rather be on my knees sucking your handsome prick.”</p><p>The words came fast, hard, and heated, putting an erotic image before my blindfolded eyes and stoking my lust.</p><p>“Yes. No,” I said.</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t want you to soil your darling skirts.”</p><p>She chuckled. “But you wouldn’t mind soiling my darling mouth?”</p><p>“Not at all.”</p><p>She pinched my nipple hard. I groaned loudly.</p><p>She shushed me. “We’re in danger of getting caught. And our time is running out.”</p><p>I felt a hand at my trouser pocket. Then she gave my half-hard prick one squeeze and my buttock another.</p><p>Then she, and the blindfold, were gone.</p><p>I was left alone, lost, disoriented, and encumbered, by my tented trousers as well as the curtains.</p><p>The battle through the heavy material did much to vanquish my arousal, but it left me decidedly disheveled, too. I emerged and crashed into an usher, a very different usher from the one who’d lead me away. This fellow gave me a serious tongue-lashing and marched me hastily back to my seat, his sharp, scornful stare like a bayonet point between my shoulder blades. I was too busy smoothing my hair and straightening my clothes, however, to care much about his disapproval.</p><p>The usher wasn’t the only one not to think very highly of me. No sooner had I collapsed into my seat than Holmes’s voice was hissing in my ear.</p><p>“Watson, really! You were in danger of missing the second half! And you reek of dalliance!”</p><p>“Reek of dalliance?”</p><p>I puffed indignantly and leaned back in my seat, about to take umbrage, but as I shifted, I felt the wad in my pocket and pulled it out.</p><p>It was a very dainty handkerchief trimmed with lace and, indeed, I discovered as I brought it to my nose, smelling of attar of roses.</p><p>I <em>did</em> reek of dalliance.</p><p>The lights dimmed.</p><p>Another admonishment warmed my ear.</p><p>“Exchanging tokens, Watson!”</p><p>“Exchanging tokens?”</p><p>“Yes, my dear parrot. Your shirt wasn’t missing a stud when we arrived!”</p><p>I looked down and gasped just as the orchestra thundered its opening bars.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Tan Calfskin Gauntlets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Miss Mohels &amp; Doctor Watson meet on a train. They have a ride and a row.</p><p>The chapter tags are anal plugs, anal sex, hand jobs, and public sex. </p><p>For Inspiring Tables prompt 45. trip.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I was returning to London after spending a day running errands for Holmes. My tasks had not been interesting ones. I had simply visited various solicitor and accountant offices collecting copies of files he’d requested. Why such a thing couldn’t be entrusted to a courier or even the post I didn’t know, but Holmes was insistent that the documents be retrieved in person.</p><p>Though feeling like a messenger boy, I was travelling very comfortably. I was in a first-class car by myself until an old gentleman joined me. He settled into the corner across from me as the train pulled out of the station. He opened a newspaper and promptly went to sleep.</p><p>A third passenger joined us.</p><p>I stood up.</p><p>“Miss Mohels.”</p><p>“Doctor Watson.”</p><p>She was a vision in a green travelling suit, wearing a very fetching hat of green silk adorned with a cream-coloured feather.</p><p>My eyes went at once to her hands, which were encased in tan calfskin gauntlets.</p><p>The glover had been right, I thought. They were perfect for the country or traveling.</p><p>Or riding.</p><p>She took her seat directly across from me.</p><p>The ticket collector arrived and conducted his business, which woke the old gentleman, but only briefly.</p><p>When the old duffer’s newspaper had slipped to the floor of the car, she looked at me and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’</p><p>I watched her lips longer than I should have and then smiled and nodded politely.</p><p>I gave a trio of glances to the window and the door and our companion.</p><p>Then I began to look at her, really look at her. Her face, her body. The breasts in the jacket and dress bodice. The tightly tucked waist. The skirts and everything hidden beneath them. The tips of the sturdy shoes peeking out.</p><p>I dragged my eyes back to her face and found her grey irises blown black, the tip of a pink tongue licking her exquisitely painted lips, and her chest rising and falling rapidly.</p><p>She put one gloved finger between her teeth, then she let the finger fall slowly, to the valley between her breasts, to her waist, and finally, to the front of her skirt.</p><p>My eyes followed, hungrily.</p><p>Just as the fantasy of falling to my knees and crawling under those skirts took hold, she rose as if a string was pulling her straight upwards by the top of her head. She stood in the centre of the car and, despite the rocking movement of the train, pivoted with the grace and equilibrium of a ballerina.</p><p>Night had already fallen, but the car was lit, and I could now see more clearly the ‘very creative dressmaking’ that before I had known only in shadow by touch.</p><p>Folds. Many folds.</p><p>But, inside the central set of the folds, I saw, as she reached back and spread the material, a row of buttons.</p><p>I cast a glance at Rip Van Winkle, then I tore off my own gloves, reached forward, and quickly unbuttoned the lot.</p><p>The next few moments were a flurry of activity. The world around us remained unchanged but our tiny sphere altered completely: the plug was wrapped in a handkerchief in my pocket, my prick was surrounded by her tight wet oozing heat, and my slicked fist was wrapped round her throbbing sex.</p><p>I could hardly believe it. She was sitting in my lap, my nose pressed against the green muslin of her dress, a faint whiff of attar of roses tickling my nostrils.</p><p>We were so exposed, so vulnerable, at any moment, someone could see us, catch us. That only made me want her more.</p><p>I can’t speak for her, but I felt like an animal, driven by lust, heedless of convention or decency.</p><p>I didn’t just care.</p><p>I stroked her faster and faster, determined that if we did get caught, it wasn’t going to be before she came to crisis. I was going to bring her off, right there, right then.</p><p>I needed her. I wanted her. I was dying to give her pleasure and spend inside her.</p><p>The train lurched, and she seemed to sink, impaling herself deeper.</p><p>What a glorious whore she was!</p><p>She rolled her hips and rode me as much as our positions and our clothing and the train allowed. I craved the way she clenched round me, pushing up, over and over and over, just to feel it again. I gripped her waist with one hand, silently begging her.</p><p>
  <em>Do it again, dear, and again, please, once more, give me just a bit more of that delicious… </em>
</p><p>Her body shuddered. A telltale wetness dampened my fingers.</p><p>I grimaced, biting my lip hard to keep from crying out.</p><p>Clean-up was carried out with ruthless speed and efficiency. We were soon facing each other again.</p><p>I looked around, absolutely stunned that we had gotten away with it.</p><p>Reading my thoughts, she met my gaze and nodded.</p><p>Enjoying the usual sequela, I sighed and smiled and idly picked a piece of lint off my trousers and asked conversationally,</p><p>“So, Miss Mohels, we’re both back to London. Where have you been?”</p><p>“I am only returning to London to transfer to another train, Doctor. I’m traveling to Edinburgh on the express tonight.”</p><p>This was news to me!</p><p>“Edinburgh!” I cried, leaning forward.</p><p>The old man in the corner snuffled. I ignored him.</p><p>I frowned and tilted my head. “How long will you be gone?”</p><p>“A week, ten days, perhaps.”</p><p>My mouth hung open. Then I remembered the document case I carried.</p><p>“For work?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>I was still frowning. “That’s a long time. What are you doing? Are you putting yourself in danger?”</p><p>“I am working. Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself.”</p><p>“Damn it!”</p><p>My eyes bore into her.</p><p>
  <em>What are you playing at? What is going on here?</em>
</p><p>Her gaze turned as inscrutable as fog. Then she looked away.</p><p>I was hurt. I was confused. My anger flared.</p><p>“You use me, and you do not trust me!” I roared.</p><p>“That’s not true,” she whispered quickly, shooting darting glances around us and showing more anxiety than when we’d been practicing public sodomy moments earlier. “I trust you with my life.”</p><p>The way she said it!</p><p>My blood boiled.</p><p>I chuckled mirthlessly. “Trust me with something you value you a little bit more than that, my dear! Your life is your favourite plaything, and I’m a close second! I’m not playing this game, I’m a bloody chess piece! I’m no better than a mushroom: keep me in the dark, feed me manure! You use me—”</p><p>“You have no qualms about using <em>me</em> when it suits you, Doctor!” She looked back at me, her lip curled in a sneer that looked grotesque on the painted mask. “How quickly you forget that.”</p><p>I recoiled.</p><p>The whistle screeched. The train slowed. The old man woke and made a fuss of gathering his newspaper.</p><p>I stood up, stood over her, looking down at the gloved hands which were crossed demurely in her lap.</p><p>She did not look up at me.</p><p>“Have a pleasant trip,” I said coldly and left the car before either she or the old man could reply.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Violet, embroidered kidskin gloves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Miss Mohels and Doctor Watson reconcile. </p><p>The chapter rating is Teen. The chapter tag is oral sex. </p><p>A very short chapter because the Leap Day challenge ends today (!) and I want to post the final chapter by tonight.</p><p>For Inspiring Tables prompt 41. Faith</p>
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    <p>Ten days later, she was in my arms. I held her tight, then ran my hands over her, proving to myself over and over that she wasn’t a fever dream. She was real and alive and flesh and bone and in my arms.</p><p>She was clinging to me, too, so very tightly. It was wonderful.</p><p>“I was thinking such foolish things in Scotland,” she breathed. “I tried not to. I tried to forget, to distract myself, to do anything not to think about you. And then I returned. When I saw the gloves…”</p><p>She buried her face in the crook of my neck.</p><p>I held her tight and considered the small room. I supposed it to be a study. There was a desk and bookshelves. There were armchairs and footrests and a cold fireplace. There was also a small table where I imagined cards might be played or even a light meal served.</p><p>It had the lack of character usually found in hotels. Indeed, the only noteworthy furnishing was an odd painting of a duck over the sideboard where we’d placed our hats.</p><p>But even at half three in the morning, a hotel makes noises. This room had the silence of a monastery. Not a creature was stirring but us.</p><p>She’d led me here along a labyrinth of alleys, gardens, back doors, side doors, corridors, hallways, steps up, steps down. I didn’t know where I was.</p><p>She gave a little choked gasp.</p><p>“When I saw the gloves, I knew you hadn’t lost your faith in me, in us. They’re magnificent!”</p><p>The kidskin gloves had been dyed a royal violet purple and embroidered with gold thread and decorated with gold beads. The design was inspired by the henna I’d seen on Indian women’s hands.</p><p>“So are you, my dear. I am sorry for how I spoke to you and for my harsh words. I do have faith in you. I know you can take care of yourself. I just worry.” I gently pulled her head away from me and looked into her eyes. I kissed her, then drew her to me again. “I want you to be safe, to be guarded. Oh, damn. But I also want to lay you down, strip you bare, make love to every inch of you.”</p><p>“I want that, too. It will happen. I know it’s beastly of me to ask, but just a few more days, John.”</p><p>We kissed, and when the kiss ended, she said,</p><p>“I brought us here so that I wouldn’t soil my skirts.”</p><p>“Cheeky minx,” I said gently.</p><p>“Whore.”</p><p>“Yes, well, on your knees, then.”</p><p>She sank to the floor.</p><p>She sucked me beautifully with her hands outstretched over her head, her palms resting on me, the artistry of the gloves on display. I had the impression of a pagan supplicant worshiping her god.</p><p>I closed my eyes and asked Providence for faith.</p><p>When I’d spent down her throat, I opened my eyes on the odd painting of the duck.</p><p>[Note: It would be ten years before I saw that painting again and learned where I had been that night. I recognised it at once when Mycroft Holmes entertained his brother and I in the second and, according to our host, lesser and rarely used of the Diogenes Club’s Stranger Rooms.]</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Black silk gloves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Miss Mohels receives her last pair of gloves.</p><p>The chapter rating is back to Explicit. The chapter tags are oral sex, anal sex, analingus, mild (in my opinion) rough sex/impact play. There are also mucho FEELS.</p><p>Inspiring Tables prompt 43. Love</p><p>Thanks to everyone who's taken this journey with me. It was definitely a flash plot bunny that seized me. Now I'm going to take a nap and go back to my regularly scheduled ficcing.</p>
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    <p>Five days later, I came downstairs and was pleasantly surprised to see two places set.</p><p>Holmes had been out of town for a fortnight. I’d received only the occasional cryptically terse telegram (Progress. STOP) to let me know how he was getting on in his work.</p><p>I raised an eyebrow at the empty space where a pile of morning newspapers usually sat, and as if she’d been waiting for her cue, Mrs. Hudson entered, stage left.</p><p>“Mister Holmes insists you speak to him in his bedroom before you breakfast. You’re to wake him if he’s asleep,” she shot me a look that spoke volumes, volumes entitled ‘I Really Wish Schoolboys Would Pass Their Own Notes in Class, I’ve Got Work to Do,’ “I’ll bring your papers when you’re ready for breakfast.”</p><p>Her lines delivered, she left.</p>
<hr/><p>“Holmes.”</p><p>He opened his eyes and smiled.</p><p>“Hello, stranger,” I said. “How are you?”</p><p>He pushed himself to sitting.</p><p>I saw the bruises round his neck.</p><p>“Holmes!”</p><p>“It looks far worse than it is,” he said hoarsely. “I’m fine. Tired but fine.”</p><p>I studied the marks. “Those were made by hands.”</p><p>“Yes, but hands that won’t hurt anyone ever again.”</p><p>I looked down the bed at the outline of his body beneath the bedclothes. “Any other injuries?”</p><p>He shook his head and covered my hand with his.</p><p>“It’s over, Watson. It’s all over.”</p><p>“It’s in the papers, isn’t it?”</p><p>He nodded. “They’re chocked full of nothing else, I expect. I wanted you to know I was all right, that I was home, before you read about it.”</p><p>“I appreciate that. Are you going to get up?”</p><p>“Maybe tomorrow. Can you bring me my pipe?”</p>
<hr/><p>The headlines screamed.</p><p>SOCIETY MADAME CHARGED IN TRIPLE MURDER!</p><p>My tea and eggs went cold as I read.</p><p>The details were lurid and many, but, in summary, the wife of a peer had been found to be operating an exclusive, luxury brothel. That might have been news enough, but the lady had also been charged with the murder of three of her workers. The investigation and discovery of three bodies, which had been buried in rural locales secretly owned by the lady, and the lady’s subsequent arrest had been the work of Scotland Yard’s rising star Inspector Alec MacDonald with, the inspector acknowledged, indispensable assistance from one of the madame’s closest associates, a brave soul who, through a grievous accident, lost her life during a confrontation with police when the accused was taken in to custody.</p>
<hr/><p>“Inspector Mac isn’t a rising star anymore,” said Holmes later. “I fancy he’s secured a permanent place in the firmament with this case. And one thing the newspapers can’t and won’t tell you is that the madame began life as one Joseph Wilson of Aberdeen.”</p><p>“Ah, Scotland. But such origins or metamorphoses don’t mean someone’s a murderer, Holmes.”</p><p>“No, of course not. Murdering five people does.”</p><p>“Five? The papers said three.”</p><p>“I couldn’t find where she’d buried the fourth body, despite all your valuable researches on my behalf, thank you for those again, by the way, and, of course, one death for which she is very much responsible, must be put down as an accident because there’s no body.” He smiled. “Penetrating the inner circle and gaining the confidence of someone who, for many reasons, guarded her privacy as tightly as she did was a great challenge.”</p><p>“A difficult, delicate, and prolonged process, I imagine. With lots of secrets and grey areas.”</p><p>“Precisely.” His eyes softened. “Lamentably.” He lit a cigarette. “So, Simpson’s tonight?”</p><p>“No, I’m still out of funds.”</p><p>“What?” He sighed theatrically. “Curse her! Aren’t her hands warm enough? Will the token bestowing never cease?”</p><p>I smiled. “It will. This is the last. She’s going away.”</p><p>“Her loss. If I know you, my dear Watson, you’ve a got a very special farewell trinket up your sleeve.”</p><p>“Yes, it arrived from Paris while you were gone.”</p><p>Holmes leaned forward, eyes round, and asked, “Did it, by Jove?” He grinned wolfishly. Then he leaned back and took a drag on the cigarette. He blew out the smoke. “I’m glad she’s going. This woman might’ve been the death of you, my dear Watson.”</p><p>“I can think of worse ways to go.”</p><p>Holmes shot me a look, which I pretended to ignore.</p>
<hr/><p>I sent the gloves to the usual address. A day later, a perfumed note arrived by the morning post. It bore only an address and an hour written in an elegant, feminine hand, but inside the envelope, I felt something small and hard. I tipped the envelope over.</p><p>A shirt stud hit the table with a sharp ‘ping’ and promptly rolled onto the floor.</p><p>Stifled giggles could be heard behind a raised newspaper at the other end of the table.</p>
<hr/><p>“John.”</p><p>“Violet.”</p><p>I pressed her against the door, closing it, and kissed her soundly. I kept on kissing her, inhaling her attar of roses and caressing her soft dark curls with both hands. I kissed her cheeks, her earlobes, her neck, my tongue flicking the pearl earrings and necklace, which I remembered from our first encounter.</p><p>We pulled apart briefly. I glanced over my shoulder.</p><p>My first impression was that the room was part bed-sit, but mostly backstage dressing room. There was a mirrored table with lights. There were pots and jars and rags and two busts, one wearing a dark curled coiffure and one bald. There was a standing screen painted with an Oriental design. The enormous wardrobe was empty save for towels and a single set of gentleman’s wear.</p><p>“This is where the magic happens?” I asked.</p><p>“Where I hope it will happen. We have our own alchemy, don’t we?”</p><p>I turned back, studying her face. I was reminded of the difference that distance makes when viewing a work of art, say, in a museum. Too far away and you can’t tell what it is at all. Or it doesn’t look like anything special. At the right distance, you can see its beauty, feel its power and poignancy. And then if you move even closer, put your face right up to it, or as close as the guards allow, you can see part of the artist themselves, the brush strokes, the paint, the craft.</p><p>I saw the canvas of her face, saw how she’d wrought her beauty.</p><p>I was in awe. It, she, was magnificent.</p><p>She saw me studying her. “Like what you see?”</p><p>“I love what I see.”</p><p>She blinked, the long, back eyelashes fluttering, then muttered, almost under her breath, “You slay me sometimes, John. You really do. Sometimes, it’s difficult to believe you’re even real.”</p><p>She drew back slightly and unwound her gloved hands from my neck. Then she brought those hands to her dressing gown and pulled the sides tighter round her body. I ran my hands over the front of it, feeling the smooth, cool, soft texture. Then I paused and grabbed her breasts mercilessly.</p><p>Padding. I could wrench them off her, I thought.</p><p>She coughed and held up her hands.</p><p>“They match well, the gloves and the gown, don’t they?”</p><p>“Yes,” I agreed, smiling at the black silk gloves. “I want to fuck you in nothing but these.”</p><p>“I thought you might. I have my own wants. There’s time for everything now.” She eased from my embrace and took a step toward the mirrored table. She waved at two glasses and bottle which were nestled among the paints and busts. “Drink first?”</p><p>“No, I just want to fuck,” I heard myself blurt. God, who was I? I sounded like a cad, like a punter, like a…</p><p>“Just like a man,” she cooed and leaned over and caressed my cheek. Then she pulled out a straight wooden chair and twirled it and set it with its back to the door.</p><p>“Sit.”</p><p>I sat.</p><p>Then, with her back to me, she strode toward the screen, swaying her hips, slowly untying the sash of her dressing gown as she moved.</p><p>She disappeared behind the screen.</p><p>I leaned back in the chair and spread my legs. My prick stirred.</p><p>When she reappeared, the hourglass figure was gone, but she held a black lace fan which she opened and closed and waved as she danced flirtatiously towards me.</p><p>The dressing gown hung open. There was a nude stripe of pale skin down to a swathe of horizontal black silk that was losing the battle of containing a half-hard prick. She leaned down and dropped a black gloved hand toward the floor, then brought it back up between her legs, covering her beautiful sex.</p><p>When she was close, I looked up after giving a puckered kiss in the direction of the prick. “Let me help you with that, then we can keep going.”</p><p>She hesitated, then leant forward and yanked the black silk down.</p><p>I’ve never enjoyed sucking a prick more in my life. I choked myself with it while she chanted,</p><p>“John, John, John…”</p><p>Black silk brushed my hair, caressed my forehead, cheeks, cheeks that distended with every bob.</p><p>At some point, I heard the fan clatter to the floor.</p><p>After I’d swallowed, I looked up. She looked down. Her eyes were almost completely hidden by the lashes.</p><p>“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve been wanting that for some time. Go on. Do what you had in mind. When you’re ready, of course.” I nuzzled her belly and rubbed her thighs.</p><p>“It’s not a game if two can’t play, is it?” Her voice was shaky.</p><p>“No, it isn’t.”</p><p>She was standing between the V of my open legs. After few moments, she turned slowly and let the dressing gown fall into my lap. I was reminded of how she turned in the train.</p><p>“We fucked in a train,” I said, still not entirely believing it.</p><p>“Yes, and it was very, very good.”</p><p>She took three deep breaths. I didn’t touch her. I heard her swallow. Then, when she spoke, her voice was light and coquettish, just as it had been that first night in the fog.</p><p>“You’re so sweet to me, John. And sometimes, well, I’m so naughty. I don’t deserve it.”</p><p>This was a script. She was leading. I would follow.</p><p>“Naughty, eh?”</p><p>The black silk formed a Y, the stem of which disappeared between the cheeks of her buttocks.</p><p>“Very.”</p><p>“Well, you know what naughty girls get.”</p><p>“Oh, please.”</p><p>I slapped her cheeks. I bit them. I licked them. I pinched them. I scratched them.</p><p>I mauled her.</p><p>She moaned and pushed back into my assault.</p><p>“Are you plugged?” I asked with my face in her cleft. I bit the tight cord of silk and pulled it out between my teeth.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>I released the silk.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“To be ready.”</p><p>“For?”</p><p>“For you to sod me.”</p><p>“Anywhere, anytime?”</p><p>“Yes. I don’t to fuss with the preparation. I just want you to fill me.”</p><p>“Whore. You need my prick?”</p><p>“<em>Your</em> whore. Yes, desperately.”</p><p>“<em>My</em> whore.” I slapped. I bit. “You like that?”</p><p>“Yes! I like it when you’re rough, John, when you’re so mad with lust that you forget about being chivalrous and gentle.”</p><p>“Indeed? I thought most ladies appreciated a gentle touch.”</p><p>“I’m not most ladies, John.”</p><p>I was massaging her buttocks now, kneading them, the pads of my fingers digging deep.</p><p>“So, if I just threw you onto that bed,” there was a bed, tucked tightly along one wall, “and took you?”</p><p>“You’d make me the happiest whore in the world.”</p>
<hr/><p>So, it happened.</p><p>Her face was buried in the bed. Elbows bent, her gloved hands were behind her head. My hands were covering hers. My prick was in her arse.</p><p>When I’d spent, I pulled out and collapsed on top of her.</p><p>“Thank you. I’ve been wanting that for some time,” she mumbled.</p><p>I lifted off of her. She rolled onto her back.</p><p>She made an arresting sight.</p><p>The hair, disheveled but, remarkably, still in place. The pearls, still on her ears and around her neck. The face paint smudged, but not wholly erased. The eyelashes still fluttering. The gloves, oh, the gloves.</p><p>And then the rest of her.</p><p>“You’re a work of art.”</p><p>“You’re the only patron I ever want. Take your clothes off, John. And fuck me again.”</p><p>I did.</p><p>I played with her until she was hard again and then offered her the tight crevice of my clasped thighs, which she took. I shoved her on her back and abused her mouth with my bullocks and arse, making her pleasure the whole underside of me while she writhed and whimpered and gripped my thighs with black silk fingers.</p><p>“Don’t stop, John, please!”</p><p>“I have no intention of stopping until I’m satisfied, my beautiful whore. I’ve paid for the privilege, don’t you think? Six pairs of very nice gloves.”</p><p>“Oh, God, yes.”</p><p>I bent her over the stool in front of the mirrored table and made her watch herself getting sodded.</p><p>When I’d found my release, she folded, as limp as a rag doll, while I knealt behind her and licked my drippings from her hole.</p><p>I finished cleaning her. She slid to the floor and kissed me.</p><p>The dark curls were askew. One earring was gone.</p><p>“I love you, John.”</p><p>“I love you, too, Violet. I will miss you, terribly.”</p><p>“Perhaps. At first. But it’ll get easier.” She smirked. “And there’s always my ghost!”</p><p>She sat at the table.</p><p>I cleaned myself up and, having no better option, cocooned myself in the black silk dressing gown. Sitting on the bed, the wall to my back, I looked ridiculous.</p><p>Finally, the figure turned.</p>
<hr/><p>“Watson.”</p><p>“Holmes.”</p><p>Throwing off the dressing gown, I went to him and knelt between his legs.</p><p>“I love you. Every incarnation. Every role.”</p><p>He leaned down and kissed me.</p><p>“The first night was pure cheek. I was dolled up for the case and thought I’d tease you. But I liked it too much. The way you looked at me! It’s difficult to separate out what part is the trappings and what part is the play and what part is your reaction. And the sex, God, the sex!” He shook his head. “I can’t examine it too closely or doubts and shame start to creep in. But it’s so illogical!”</p><p>“It’s art. It’s wonderful.” I kissed his hairy knee. “It’s not wrong or twisted. It’s just, well, a bit dramatic, which is to say, you.”</p><p>“Dramatic, yes, and all of this drama,” he gestured to the room, “will vanish by midnight tomorrow.”</p><p>“The gloves, too?”</p><p>“No! They’re mine. And Violet’s.”</p><p>We looked at each other for a long time.</p><p>“I have a proposal, Holmes.” I stood and turned and tucked myself into his lap. He sat his pointy chin on my good shoulder and hummed. “Let’s stay a bit longer, then go to the bath when it opens.”</p><p>“I accept,” he said, then he took my hand and extended our arms together, lacing his fingers into mine. “Hand in glove, Watson. That’s us."</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. DELETED SCENE: Watson & Violet make-up. Rating: Teen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Watson and Violet make up after their row. </p><p>This would take place at the before Chapter 6. </p><p>Chapter rating: Teen. For the DW Holmes Minor March 2020 prompt: make up.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Good glovers will tell you that it takes three countries to produce the finest of their wares: Spain, to raise the kid; France, to cut the cloth; and England, to sew it.</p><p>In a day, when the mule-headed indignation had burnt off, the weight of just how much of an ass I’d been to Miss Mohels began to constrict my breathing. The urge to apologise arrived fast and strong. It was followed by the notion that, depending on how well or poorly the lady took care of herself in Edinburgh, I might not have the opportunity to apologise. I had no address by which to reach her. No way to correspond. I could only wait.</p><p>But I wasn’t going spend my days and nights pacing and wringing my hands. I set myself to a distracting programme, in between the patient rounds, of course: the fashioning of an apology in the medium that was our own.</p><p>First, I located the softest kidskin in the city and had it dyed to the most enchanting shade of violet. Then, I found a Gallic expatriate in the London cesspool who agreed to cut the material to my lady’s proportions, which, after many years of study, I knew far better than my own. Meanwhile, I exhausted myself at night with draft sketches of the embroidery, which were refined after consultation with a English sorceress of the needle, who agreed, with a touch of pitying amusement in her eyes, to do the stitching. Silver thread for m’lady’s quicksilver eyes. Gold for her resoluteness of heart. Pearls for those which adorned her neck and earlobes.</p><p>Mere hours after the final product was dispatched, she found me.</p><p>I said nothing, merely advanced upon her until her back was to the wall and we were both hidden in darkness.</p><p>I soon my lips hovered before hers.</p><p>“Kiss and make up?” she said in a broken voice.</p><p>I kissed her.</p><p>“I’m so very sorry, my dear. I was a complete and utter ass. I don’t know how to—”</p><p>“You do know how to, John. You reconcile in the most glorious manner imaginable.”</p><p>She held up her hands.</p><p>I inclined my head and accepted the compliment.</p><p>“I want to bring you somewhere that affords more privacy and freedom of movement, John.”</p><p>I raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“No,” she said, reading my thoughts, “Not my, uh, headquarters, not yet, but someplace just as safe and silent. It’s as silent as the grave.”</p><p>“Not a churchyard, I hope?” I asked, a bit anxious.</p><p>She hummed. “Almost. Living corpses.”</p><p>I frowned. Then I kissed her again. “I am sorry.”</p><p>“I know. I put you in all kinds of situations. You have the patience of a saint.”</p><p>“I’m not saint.”</p><p>“I didn’t say <em>that</em>.”</p><p>I laughed. “All right.” I let her lead me.</p><p>A sliver of moonlight shone on our joined hands.</p><p>“Oh, good,” I murmured, seeing that the elegant V M, hidden in the curling vines and jagged leaves, did sparkle, just as I’d envisioned.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. DELETED SCENE: At the dressing table. Rating: Mature</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Watson studies the make-up on Violet's dressing table. Chapter Rating: Mature for licking and biting. This would take place during Chapter 7. </p>
<p>For the DW Holmes Minor March 2020 prompt: make up.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>At the moment, these are the last of the deleted scenes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I sat on the stool and gave a thoughtful, studying glance to the array of bottles and jars on the dressing table. I nodded. There were powders, salves, emulsions, and creams. A few of the preparations I recognised, many I did not. Nevertheless, most bore the mark of a chemist’s shop or manufacturer. There were a few preparations, however, that were contained in simple, unadorned vessels and phials.</p>
<p>I waved a hand at these.</p>
<p>Violet approached. The black silk of her dressing gown formed a glossy backdrop curtain to my reflection in the trio of the dressing table mirrors.</p>
<p>“Those I obtain from an amateur chemist who can, rare occasion, be persuaded to apply his considerable intellect to the mundane question of the enhancement of the feminine appearance.”</p>
<p>I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.</p>
<p>“You are aware, are you not, Doctor, that arsenic can be used as a treatment and a beauty enhancement, but that it is also a lethal poison. There are many such elements that straddle the fence between aid and taint, between make-up and toxin.”</p>
<p>I nodded.</p>
<p>“A few of them I must use very sparingly. Only when I desire a dramatic effect.”</p>
<p>“When do you <em>not</em> desire a dramatic effect, m’lady?”</p>
<p>She chuckled. “Touché.”</p>
<p>I turned my head from the bottles and jars to her body. I raised the hem of the dressing gown until an arched sliver of bare skin was exposed, her leg, her thigh, her hip. A ribbon of black silk cut across the last horizontally.</p>
<p>Using one hand to pin the material almost at her waist, the drape of it still covering her sex and most of her buttocks, I licked her skin.</p>
<p>I heard her gasp.</p>
<p>I looked up quickly and discovered she was not looking down at me, but rather at the reflection of me and her lower half in the mirror.</p>
<p><em>So</em>, I thought, <em>the lady likes to watch, does she?</em></p>
<p>It made perfect sense, and it was the decision of a moment to indulge her.</p>
<p>I extended my tongue much farther than required and licked again.</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>I pulled my lips back and bit.</p>
<p>“Oh, John. <em>Fuck</em>.”</p>
<p>With the last oath, she almost, <em>almost</em>, broke character.</p>
<p>Soon, I had both hands on her, one gently cupping her hardening sex through the silk, one roughly gripping her buttock, likewise, through the silk. I kept my elbows down, not occluding her view.</p>
<p>I did not look, but by the noises she made, I am certain we made a highly erotic scene cropped by the limits of the mirror. I imagine I resembled a circus tiger, licking and nuzzling and gnawing at her butcher’s special of flesh.</p>
<p>“Oh, John, you must stop. There’s more I want to do.”</p>
<p>I stopped. I dropped my hands to my thighs. The silk fell back into place.</p>
<p>I looked up and watched her chest rise and fall.</p>
<p>She looked down and needlessly brushed the hair from my face.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. A Case of Identity (Gen.)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><b>Title:</b> A Case of Identity<br/><b>Character:</b> Miss Mary Sutherland, Holmes, Watson, Miss Lilac Mohels<br/><b>Length:</b> 400<br/><b>Rating:</b> Gen<br/><b>Summary:</b> After "The Case of Identity," Watson thinks Holmes wants him to tell Mary Sutherland the truth.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For DW Watson's Woes 2020 July Writing Prompts #29: To the Makeup Table! Focus on Holmes and/or Watson in disguise – for a case, or for any other reason. and DW Inspiring Tables .25: Lilac.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“If I tell her she will not believe me,” said Holmes.</p>
<p>I could not believe what I was hearing. Was Holmes actually suggesting Miss Sutherland be kept in the dark about the cruel trick her stepfather, with her mother’s blessing, had played upon her in cause of nothing more noble than filthy lucre? Surely not! I’d never heard anything so outrageous, and I was about to say so when his next statement silenced me.</p>
<p>“She will not believe me, but she may believe someone else.”</p>
<p>He looked at me thoughtfully.</p>
<p>I caught his meaning at once.</p>
<p>Me.</p>
<p>He meant me.</p>
<p>A physician might hold more sway than a detective, I supposed. As a doctor, I was accustomed to giving bad news as well as dealing with shock and grief.</p>
<p>“I see,” I said solemnly.</p>
<p>“Good,” he replied.</p>
<p>And no more was said about it.</p>
<p>Holmes disappeared soon after our conversation concluded, and I readied myself for the unpleasant task ahead.</p>
<p>But I needn’t have worried myself for when I appeared at Miss Sutherland’s residence, I was told that she was out. I left my card and advised her to come round to Baker Street at her earliest convenience.</p>
<p>I returned to the pavement and turned, only to see Miss Mary Sutherland approaching arm-in-arm with someone I recognised, someone I vaguely recognised.</p>
<p>“Oh, Doctor Watson!” cried the young lady. “Will you meet my new friend, Miss Lilac Mohels?”</p>
<p>“How do you do, Doctor?”</p>
<p>“Very well, thank you, Miss,” I said.</p>
<p>Mohels. Not Violet Mohels, but Lilac Mohels.</p>
<p>I studied the padding, the stooped posture, the make-up, the clothing, which a few steps down in quality and stylishness from what Miss Violet Mohels would’ve worn.</p>
<p>“I believe I’ve made the acquaintance of a relation of yours, Miss Mohels. Her Christian name was Violet.”</p>
<p>“My young sister,” said Lilac, whose smile was, at once, demure and matronly.</p>
<p>“Lilac is taking me to the optician’s to get new spectacles. Then we’re going shopping.”</p>
<p>“To see what we can see, that is,” corrected the older lady gently.</p>
<p>I almost laughed. It wasn’t me Holmes had intended to cause the scales to fall from Miss Sutherland’s eyes at all.</p>
<p>“Well, I wish you well,” I said.</p>
<p>They giggled and pushed on.</p>
<p>I stopped and called after them.</p>
<p>“Miss Mohels?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Doctor?”</p>
<p>“You haven’t got another sister named Plum, have you?”</p>
<p>She winked. “Baked in a tart!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
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